


The Thief's Luck

by windsroad



Category: Elder Scrolls IV: Oblivion
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2017-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsroad/pseuds/windsroad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The prisoner, thief, and eventual Hero of Kvatch and Champion of Cyrodiil hasn't been very lucky recently. But maybe it's all in the plan.</p>
<p>Mostly follows Oblivion's main questline and part of the Mages Guild, possibly the Thieves Guild (or the Thieves Guild in a side-story).</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Prisoner Has a Lucky Day

The prisoner stood in her cell in the Imperial City Bastion and sighed. She had gotten into a lot of sticky situations in her life, and this one was most definitely her own fault. Or maybe the Divines, or the Daedra. Luck was not with her recently. But, if someone up there was against her, it was probably her own doing.

When the guard took her in, taking all her belongings and storing them away as evidence, she had managed to smuggle one lockpick. She reasoned that it was in her best interests to serve her sentence properly, instead of going on the run, but the insufferable Dunmer in the cell across the aisle made her reconsider. She could break out of her cell and into his, give him a piece of her mind, and then lock herself back in her own cell. When the guard came and found him beaten, she would swear until she was blue in the face that _No sir, I have no idea what happened to him, he was like that when I got here._

Valen Dreth was shrieking that she was a stuck-up harlot who was going to die in here, Breton; she was going to die; and she decided that it was worth it so long as she could _get him to shut up_ and reached for her lockpick.

The chinking of armored individuals came from down the hallway. The prisoner stuffed the lockpick back in her mouth.

Three not-guards in Akaviri armor and—by the Nine, who was that man dressed in opulent robes and furs?—came up to her cell door. “What’s this prisoner doing here? This cell is supposed to be off limits!” demanded the woman, another Breton. The Imperial man with her commanded the prisoner to back up to the window, out of the way, on pain of death.

Lockpick still in her mouth, she stayed silent and did as she was told.

The impeccably dressed man stopped in front of her, shocked look on his face. “You… I’ve seen you. In my dreams,” he said, voice full of wonder. “The stars were right, and today is the day… Gods give me strength. Gods give us both strength.”

“Mmhm,” she mumbled, trying to talk around the lockpick in her cheek. She sighed in defeat and spat it out into her hand. “I’m not sure what you think you’ve seen, sir, but the Gods and I are not on the best terms. In case that wasn’t obvious,” she said ruefully.

“Do not worry about your past. Perhaps they placed you here so that we might meet,” he said, voice kind and eyes soft. He did not acknowledge the lockpick she had in her hand, though the woman next to him did, with a small outcry of protest. “What you’ve done does not matter. It is not what you will be remembered for.”

The prisoner struggled with that. She would certainly _like_ to blame her shortcomings on the will of the Nine. The greed that drove her to steal something pretty she didn’t quite need, the arrogance to think she couldn’t get caught and cornered. But she was also proud of her achievements, and felt offended that they were supposedly unimportant. “Please, sir,” she said, exasperated. “What’s going on? What do you know about me? Are you…?”

“I am your emperor, Uriel Septim. By the grace of the Gods, I serve Tamriel as her ruler.” The Emperor’s posture did not change as he said so. It was not a boast, but merely a fact of his life. The prisoner would not have had the grace to act the same—though at the moment, she did not have grace at all. She was painfully aware of the dirt on her face, her messy hair, and the wet lockpick in her hand.

“Oh! I’m sorry, y-your Majesty,” said the prisoner. “What are you doing here?”

Uriel Septim continued. “Assassins have attacked my sons, and so my Blades are leading me out of the city. By chance, or perhaps something more, the entrance of the escape route lies in your cell.”

“You think there was a reason I was arrested and placed in this cell? Besides me committing a crime?” She knew it wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility, but it still seemed improbable. “You don’t mean for me to follow,” she asked doubtfully.

“You will follow, for a time. But you will find your own path,” replied the Emperor confidently. “But take care… there will be blood and death before the end.”

The prisoner shivered.

The third Blade, a Redguard man, opened the stone wall of the cell. “Looks like it’s your lucky day, prisoner.”

 

* * *

 

The prisoner burst out of the caverns she’d used as a detour and back into the Ayleid tunnels of cool white stone. One of the Blades, the woman named Captain Renault, had already fallen to the assassins. The prisoner now had Renault’s Akaviri katana strapped to her waist. Despite this, the Blades had insisted the prisoner stop following the Emperor, and with no other way, she had to take a separate path and fight rats and goblins. Where had they expected her to go after letting her out of prison, pardoning her, and leading her through _half_ of an escape route?

“Sire, I don’t know where the prisoner is, but we need to keep moving,” said one of the Blades, Baurus. The group stood next to the bodies of two more assassins.

“No, I know she followed us. Let me rest a while longer,” replied Emperor Uriel.

Hearing that the Emperor was waiting for her, the prisoner crept out of the shadows and slipped down to meet them. “I’m back, your Majesty,” she said.

The other remaining Blade, Glenroy, groaned. “Dammit, it’s that prisoner again!” he swore. “Maybe we should kill her, she might be working with the assassins. She has a bound weapon, just like them.”

“Whoa whoa whoa,” the prisoner said quickly, backing up against the wall. She dropped her bound bow spell and raised her empty hands in the air. “Listen, I’m not—”

“No,” said Emperor Uriel, hand outstretched. His voice was commanding. “She is not one of them. She can help us. She _must_ help us.”

The prisoner looked back to Glenroy and smiled nervously, slowly lowering her arms. “As you wish, sire,” he said begrudgingly.

Emperor Uriel motioned the prisoner aside. “They cannot understand why I trust you. They’ve not seen what I’ve seen.”

She studied his face for some kind of answer and found none. “I… do not think I’ve seen what you’ve seen, either, your Majesty.”

The Emperor sighed. “How can I explain… Listen. However you feel about the Nine: you know how They guide our fates with an invisible hand?”

Was he _preaching_ to her? “I suppose I’ve never really thought about it,” she replied, shifting uncomfortably.

“Well, I have served the Nine all my days, and I chart my course by the cycles of the heavens… The skies are marked by innumerable sparks, each one a fire, everyone a sign. They tell one experienced in interpreting them things of the future, or of the past. And I wonder: which sign marked your birth?”

The prisoner hesitated. She looked over to the two Blades, who were standing and watching expectantly. “The Thief, sire,” she replied. The way her birthsign had led her life seemed laughably simple when she had to say it to the Emperor.

“A lucky sign to have,” said Uriel Septim. “Today, the Thief shall guide your steps on the road to destiny. However, the signs show the end of _my_ path. My death, a necessary end, will come when it will come.”

“No, sire, the Blades—they’ll protect you. I’ll protect you too, you’ll be fine, you’ll see,” she said, trying to sound comforting. It was easy to see how a man who’d just lost his three sons might feel his own death was inevitable as well.

“I am not afraid of my death,” the Emperor said. He sounded offended at the implication. “I have lived well, and my ghost shall rest easy. I am blessed to know the hour of my fate, when most men are not so lucky. I trust you, though I do not know your future, because in your face I see the sun’s companion. The dawn of Akatosh’s bright glory may banish the coming darkness. With such hope, and the promise of your aid, my heart shall be satisfied.”

The prisoner was more accustomed to hiding in darkness, rather than banishing it. “You think too much of me… You trust too readily.”

“We shall see. I go to my grave. A tongue shriller than all the music calls me. You shall follow me yet for a while, then we shall part. We must continue.”

The Emperor motioned for the group to continue unto the next room.

Baurus handed the prisoner a torch. “You might as well make yourself useful,” he said companionably.

Glenroy was less amicable. “I don’t know why the Emperor trusts you,” he growled, “but watch yourself.”

Creeping into the next room, another wave of assassins attacked. Each group of assassins wore powerful Daedric armor, only for it to disappear into plain red robes once defeated. A bound armor spell, like the bound weapon spell the prisoner used. She stuck close to the Emperor, holding him back and trying to guard him with her body, though he drew a silver shortsword and wished to attack with the Blades.

The next room ended in an iron gate. It was locked. “Shit, a trap!” exclaimed Glenroy. “Let’s try that side passage.”

The Blades drew their swords and led the group into the side passage—which was truly just one small room. This was getting them nowhere fast.

“A dead end,” said Baurus. He motioned to the prisoner. “We’re going to stop the assassins from the other side. You stay here and guard the Emperor _with your life_.”

She nodded. At least, in this room, there was only one entrance to watch.

Once they’d left, Emperor Uriel turned to the prisoner. “I can go no further,” he said urgently. “You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants. He must not have the Amulet of Kings!” The Emperor’s blue eyes seemed sharp in their intensity.

“The Prince of Destruction? The Amulet of Kings?” she interrupted. “Your Majesty, I don’t understand.”

He removed the amulet with a large red gem from around his neck. “Take my amulet. Give it to Jauffre. He alone knows where to find my last son. You— _you_ —must find the last of my blood, and close shut the jaws of Oblivion.”

The prisoner fumbled to grab the amulet that was thrust at her. “Your Majesty, none of this makes any sense—this amulet? Another son? Why would Oblivion need to be shut?”

He continued his speech without answering her questions. “This is where my journey ends. But for you, the road is long and dangerous.” Uriel Septim closed her fingers around the amulet’s gem.  “Stand true, my friend. May your heart be your guide and the gods grant you strength.”

The prisoner’s mind reeled from the gravity of the situation. “O-of course, your Majesty. I will do this for you.”

The prisoner looked from the Emperor back down to the amulet. It was truly a marvelous artifact, something she would not trust to a self-professed thief if you paid her. She was opening her mouth to ask _Please sire, are you sure about this?_ when she heard the rumbling of stone against stone.

An assassin jumped out of a secret passage in the wall and slew the Emperor in one strike.

Her eyes went from the assassin, in his Daedric armor, to the body of the Emperor lying at his feet, back to the assassin again. The assassin vaulted over the Emperor’s body and was rushing at her. The prisoner’s stomach lurched.

“No!” she shouted, drawing Captain Renault’s katana. One short scuffle and the assassin was lying next to his victim.

The prisoner dropped to her knees. “Your Majesty,” she called, shaking his body gently. “Your Majesty, you need to get up…”

Baurus ran in, calling, “Is everyone alright?” but stopped dead in his tracks when he saw the scene.

The prisoner looked back up at Baurus, eyes wide with shock. He was carrying two katanas—the other was Glenroy’s. She connected the dots.

“No—Talos save us,” he muttered, kneeling beside her. He checked the Emperor’s pulse, and finding nothing, sat back on his heels. His expression was a mirror of the prisoner’s own. “We’ve failed… _I’ve_ failed. The Blades’ one purpose is to serve and protect the Emperor, and now he and all his heirs are dead.” Baurus looked down at the blade in the prisoner’s hand, and in a tone of defeat, said, “Thank you for picking up Captain Renault’s sword. I’ll give it and Glenroy’s places of honor among the Blades, for whatever we are worth now.”

The prisoner reached out and grabbed Baurus’ shoulder. “N-no, the Blades’ job isn’t over yet,” she said, looking from the amulet in her hand back to Baurus’ eyes. “The Emperor, he said he had one heir left. Hidden away. He gave me this amulet, told me to bring it to some… Jauffre.”

“Jauffre?” said Baurus, a bit of hope returning to his eyes. “Yes, that makes sense… he’s the grandmaster of my order. If anyone would know, it’d be him. The Amulet of Kings is sacred, more so than the Red Dragon Crown: that’s just jewelry. The amulet has power. Only a true heir can wear it, they say.”

Baurus met the prisoner’s eyes. “The Emperor saw something in you… trusted you. The Dragon Blood of the Septim line is said to grant visions—they see more than lesser men. And if he told you to bring the amulet to Jauffre, then that’s what you should do. He lives as a monk in Weynon Priory, near Chorrol. You need to get out of here, through the path in the sewers we would have taken, and get that amulet to Jauffre.” The prisoner nodded.

“Can you make it there on your own?” Baurus continued. “You seem experienced. I’d guess you’re an archer, but you also conjured that bow. You some kind of mage?”

The ex-prisoner shrugged and looked away. “I’m just a thief,” she replied. “But I can make it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first ever fanfiction... I read a very old, very long, and very bad Oblivion fanfic, and thought to myself, "Sheesh, even I could write something better than that." So here I am. Hopefully I succeed.


	2. The Thief Underestimates Things

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thief speaks with Jauffre, a paranoid Bosmer, and a terrified Altmer.

The thief stumbled out into the sunlight where the Imperial City sewers let out into Lake Rumare. The glaring light on her face seemed almost like an offense after the death of the Emperor and the task he had laid before her.

She sat down on the dock just outside the sewer, across the lake from a small Ayleid ruin. The thief took the Amulet of Kings out of her pack and studied it. It was a bittersweet spoil. The red diamond in the center was huge, bigger than her whole palm. It was set around the edges in such a way she could hold it up and look through it like faceted stained glass, making the world red and distorted. Eight gems of various colors were set around the edge.

“Only someone of the Septim line can wear it, huh?” she said to herself. “It’s odd, but it doesn’t seem enchanted.” She put the amulet over her head. The chain seemed to slip from her neck like water through her fingers.

“Wh…?” She had definitely just tried to put it on a second ago. She tried again, but this time the chain escaped her gasp before it had even gotten past her ears.

“Okay, I get the picture,” she mumbled.

The thief was familiar enough with other thieves to know that they could spot someone carrying a valuable object. She would have to head to Chorrol immediately, but first, she had some errands to run. She stopped in Market District to collect her things from a lonely, unattended barrel.

When she was arrested, the thief had dashed down an alleyway, only to find herself cornered—she could see with detect life two guards coming at her from both sides. She had considered her options. Resist, get into a fight and hopefully escape, but possibly end with someone dead. Her other option: stash her contraband and other belongings nearby and allow them to take her in. She’d chosen the latter.

So she now retrieved her things but tried to remain discreet. She had been pardoned, but she wasn’t sure if—or how, frankly—that information could have gotten out. Next, she stopped at her home in the Waterfront to get spare armor, as her usual set was, theoretically, still in an evidence chest in the Bastion. She wasn’t too keen on returning there anytime soon. The Waterfront, though shabby and full of criminals, was a relatively safe place—especially if you were _one_ of those criminals.

The thief spotted Methredhel, a Bosmer Thieves Guild member, chatting amiably with another resident of the Waterfront. She kept her eyes on Methredhel while sneaking quietly to her own door.

The thief slammed into something hard and leather.

“You don’t need to sneak around here,” said a familiar voice. “If you’ve got a bounty, I can take care of it for you.”

“A- _Armand!_ ” said the thief, smiling artificially. She backed up and straightened to look him in the eye. Armand Christophe was a charismatic Redguard and doyen of the Thieves Guild. “Funny you should mention that, I’m not entirely sure, here’s 100 gold just in case, don’t tell anyone you’ve seen me.” She rattled off the words in one breath and pushed the money into his hands before turning to leave.

“Whoa, hold on a second,” Armand said, catching her by the arm. “Where have you been? No one’s seen you in a few days, we figured something had happened.”

She sighed. “I guess I was in a little trouble, but that doesn’t matter anymore. Something—something really bad has happened. Word will probably get out soon; I’m _kind of_ involved, it’s—it’s confusing.”

Armand frowned. “Does it have anything to do with the guild?”

She shook her head. “No, nothing like that. But I’ve got to bring _something_ to _someone,_ and I’d rather no one know where it is or what I’ve got.”

Armand took a step back. “If there’s anything I can understand, it’s the need for discretion,” he said. “Get going. I’ll handle whatever business you’ve still got in the city.”

_Have you heard the news,_ she heard whispered in the background. _They say the Emperor—_

“ _Thank_ you,” she said, shooting Armand a look of gratitude. “Hopefully I’ll be all finished with this soon and be back before you know it.”

 

* * *

 

The thief took the Black Road, through the Green Forest towards Chorrol. She felt anxious each time she saw someone on the road. Though she still didn’t understand half of what the Emperor said, she found his faith in her… inspiring. Surely, if the Emperor thought she was capable of accomplishing something greater than herself, it might just be true. And she was shocked to discover, when held up on the road by highwaymen, that she was more willing to fight and die over the Amulet of Kings than hand over her money and risk letting them search her and find it.

When she approached Weynon Priory outside Chorrol, the sun was just setting. She was exhausted and desperate to get this amulet off her hands. The thief stumbled up to the small priory. Catching sight of a nearby man, she gave him a cursory glance. The Breton wore a black robe and tonsured hair. Yes, he was certainly a monk.

“This Weynon Priory?” she demanded. “You Jauffre?”

The monk frowned. “This _is_ Weynon Priory, a monastic retreat dedicated to the Order of Talos. But _I_ am Prior Maborel, the head of our community. Brother Jauffre can usually be found inside the priory, at his desk. But we just got word of the Emperor’s assassination. This might not be the best time to meet with him.”

“This is the Jauffre that’s the Grandmaster of the Blades, yes?” she asked.

“One and the same,” replied Prior Maborel. “He prefers to be called Brother Jauffre, usually. And you are…?”

“Tired,” the thief answered, sighing. “I need to go in and see him. Thank you for her help.” She banged open the door of the priory. “Broth… Gra… Jauffre!” she called. She was not at all sure what to call him. She felt uncomfortable calling who she knew was the grandmaster of the Blades “Brother Jauffre.”

“At my desk,” an older man’s voice replied.

She pounded up the stairs. The older Breton man, Jauffre, sat at a desk in the upper right side of the small stone building, reading a book studiously. He had balding grey hair and wore a brown monk’s robe. “Are you Jauffre?” she asked. “Grandmaster of the Blades?”

“I am,” he replied, narrowing his eyes. “What do you want, in times like these? Who are you?”

“I’m nobody,” she replied. “Some… some thief. But the Emperor sent me to find you. I have the Amulet of Kings.”

Jauffre stood up and loomed over the desk at her. “You’d better explain yourself,” he snapped. “Now.”

Not the best way to word that. “Sorry,” the thief quickly amended, “no, I didn’t steal _this_. I was there, when he died. He told me to bring you this.”

“ _You_ bring me the Amulet of Kings?” he asked, decidedly unimpressed. “Let me see it.”

She handed it to him. The large diamond glimmered in the setting sun. “By the Nine, this _is_ the Amulet of Kings,” he exclaimed. “Who are you? How did you get it? What do you know of the Emperor’s death?”

“I know it seems improbable,” she said, looking away. “The escape route he took—tried to take—went through my cell. He kept saying things—that the Gods made it so that we would meet, that the stars had told him what would happen. He pardoned me. He said I’m needed to help, bring you the amulet, find his last son, and ‘close shut the jaws of Oblivion.’ I think he knew he was going to die, sir.”

Jauffre sat back down. “Did he say that?” he asked gravely. “‘The jaws of Oblivion? Tell me what he said exactly.”

“Ah, yes,” she said, blinking at the response. “He said, ‘You alone must stand against the Prince of Destruction and his mortal servants,’ that they couldn’t have the Amulet of Kings. He told me to take the amulet and give it to you, because you were the only one who knows where his last son was. And that I must find the last of his blood and ‘close shut the jaws of Oblivion.’ It didn’t make any sense to me, honestly. But you know I can’t have known about this last heir, so I must be telling the truth. Find Baurus and ask him if you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you,” Jauffre replied, staring at the Amulet of Kings. “The Prince of Destruction is Mehrunes Dagon, the Daedric Prince that rules the plane of Oblivion called the Deadlands. He must have suspected some sort of threat from Oblivion—but scholars all agree that Nirn is protected from the Daedra by magical barriers.”

The thief frowned. The involvement of a Daedric Prince was not something to sneeze at, but the pieces didn’t add up. “Then how is there a threat? What else did he know that we don’t?”

Jauffre sighed and sunk down a little in his chair. “I’m not sure. Only the emperors really understand these matters involving the rituals of coronation. Saint Alessia herself received the Amulet of Kings from the Gods, and it holds a great holy power. At the coronation, the new Emperor uses the Amulet to light the Dragonfires in the Temple of the One. Now, with no reigning emperor, the Dragonfires will be dark for the first time in centuries. Only the Emperor might know what this means.”

The thief was glad she had been so careful protecting the amulet. Losing something like that seemed like an extreme setback. “What about this son?” she asked. “Can he light the Dragonfires?”

“Not many know he exists. That is why I believed you,” Jauffre said. “One night, when I was still the captain of the Blades, Uriel called me into his private chambers. He had a baby boy, sleeping in a basket, and asked me to deliver him somewhere safe.” Jauffre’s tone softened. “He didn’t tell me anything else, but I knew it was his son. He would occasionally ask about the child’s progress.”

The thief shifted her weight a little. “So this son, he is…?”

Jauffre sighed, and his voice became brisk once more. “It seems that this illegitimate son is the heir to the Septim Throne. If he yet lives. His name is Martin. He is a priest of Akatosh in the Chapel in the city of Kvatch.” Jauffre paused.

The thief rocked back on her heels. Was her part in this over already? “We-ell, I’m sure you’ll want someone more trustworthy, one of your Blades, to retrieve the heir.” She ducked her head and turned to leave.

“Wait,” Jauffre called after her, standing again. “The Emperor entrusted this task to you. It sounds like he knew you would be involved in this. I must ask you. Go to Kvatch, find the heir. If the enemy is aware of his existence, as seems likely, he is in terrible danger.”

The sun had sent completely now. She will have lied to Armand. “I could use—some help. Some supplies. A rest.”

“Of course, of course,” said Jauffre. “Sleep in one of our spare beds. I’ll give any assistance I can.” He unlocked a nearby chest and informed her she was free to take whatever she needed.

The thief gave her thanks and stumbled to the other side of the building to one of the beds—she was not sure if it was spare or owned. She collapsed unto it and passed out.

She had fitful dreams that night. The things she’d stashed while the guards cornered her stared up at her while she dropped it into the shadows in the barrel. The shrill, mocking voice of Valen Dreth, Glenroy’s aggressive suggestion that they kill her, and the Emperor’s kind thought that the Nine had a hand in her life mingled together among the musty prison smell in a jumble of complicated emotions. The Blades before her dwindled from three to one, while the Emperor, faith in her in shining in his sharp eyes, turned into stars and was absorbed into the night sky.

She watched that night sky, trying to differentiate the Emperor-stars from all the others, when her entire sight was absorbed in flame. All over was orange and red, covered in fires and boiling lava; she felt her skin sizzle and peel away, smelled her flesh burning—

The thief shot out of bed. Her breathing was heavy and her throat ragged. She told herself that she was not shaken, had not screamed, and did not see the monks giving her odd looks from under their covers.

It was just before dawn. She crept over to the chest Jauffre had indicated to her and quietly switched out her armor. Her spare armor was worn out and desperately in need of repair, while Jauffre’s armor was fresh and well-oiled. She then rummaged through Jauffre’s desk and found a quill and parchment. She left him a note thanking him, saying she would see him in a few days, and just in case, included her address—not for the Waterfront, but her address in Anvil.

The thief left Weynon Priory as the sun was beginning to rise. She hoped to get to Skingrad to spend the night, then get to Kvatch that morning.

As the thief reached the midway point on the Red Ring Road between Chorrol and Skingrad, she began to feel quite optimistic. The nightmare from earlier was well behind her. Maybe she could even stop in to Kvatch to see this Martin fellow—Emperor Martin?—ensure he was safe, and make a detour to Anvil before coming back to bring him to Weynon Priory. She hadn’t been back to Anvil in a while, and there could be some messages there for her.

 

* * *

 

The thief arrived in Skingrad in time for a late dinner.

“PSST,” she heard, as she walked towards the Two Sisters Lodge. The thief turned sharply. There stood Glarthir, the extremely paranoid Bosmer. She sighed heavily.

“It’s been _ages_ since I asked you to follow Toutius Sextius!” he hissed. “Where have you been? What happened? He’s after me, isn’t he, I know it, probably meeting with the Count to plan my demise!”

The thief rubbed her eyes. After she had carefully shadowed Bernadette Peneles for a full day, only to find she was a perfectly normal and happy woman, who didn’t give two hoots about whatever Glarthir was doing, the thief had decided to simply forget it when Glarthir asked her to tail Toutius Sextius.

“Well, you see—” she started.

“No! Not here!” Glarthir exclaimed. “Too public!”

The thief grabbed Glarthir’s arm as he tried to walk away. “It’s _fine_.”

“You _see_ , I, uh, followed him all this time,” she lied. “I followed him so closely you didn’t even see me. So I can be sure he’s not up to anything. You’re safe.”

Glarthir frowned. “I see,” he said. “Neither Bernadette _nor_ Toutius were after me? That is… interesting.” He begrudgingly shoved a coin pouch into her hand.

She sighed and took the pouch. “Is that all, Glarthir?”

“ _No!_ I have one more assignment for you. This time, _do_ meet me behind the chapel, at midnight.”

The thief rolled her eyes. “Will do, Glarthir,” she said.

She proceeded to the Two Sisters Lodge. It wasn’t as nice as the West Weald Inn, but why did she need to spend an extra 10 septims just to sleep, anyway? Just before she turned in to sleep, at midnight, the thief left her room and to meet Glarthir behind the Great Chapel of Julianos.

“Ah, yes, there you are!” Glathir said. “I have one final suspect. This one _must_ be after me. Do you know David Surilie? Of the famous Surilie Vineyards? He uses his ‘pillar of the community’ disguise to act as the ringleader of the whole conspiracy! He watches my house _constantly_! Follow him when he leaves his house early each morning, then come back to me here, at midnight, and report what you’ve seen.”

“Sure thing, Glarthir,” she replied, and returned to her room without another word. She wasn’t even going to _bother_ looking into this.

 

* * *

 

The thief set out for Kvatch in the morning. It was not even a day’s walk from Skingrad, so she expected to arrive before midday. Though as she approached, she began to feel she was mistaken, and it was actually evening. Clouds had rolled in and entirely covered the sun. It began to pour. She gloomily began trudging up the zig-zagging road up to Kvatch as mud poured down the slope.

An Altmer ran down the path toward her, waving his arms for her to go back. “Turn around!” he shouted. “Run while there’s still time! The guard holds the road, but who knows how long!”

“ _Whoa,_ there,” the thief said, stopping him before he passed her. The Altmer towered over her. “What are you talking about? What’s going on in Kvatch?” She craned her head around him. There was a small camp of tents parked on the road.

“By the Gods, do you not know?” he said, eyes wide. “Daedra overran Kvatch last night! Glowing portals outside the walls, to Oblivion itself! There was this huge monster… like something out of a nightmare… the killing…”

Her stomach dropped. “The whole city can’t be destroyed,” she said, laughing weakly.

“Kvatch is a smoking ruin!” he shrieked. “We’re all that’s left, don’t you understand! Everyone else is _dead_!”


	3. The Thief Enters Oblivion

The thief shoved the Altmer aside and let him continue running away. He was obviously panicking, and she didn’t see any reason to hold the poor mer up. Martin was not in the refugee camp—all of seven people. He hadn’t made it out of the city. Her mind flew to the worst. If she hadn’t stayed the night in Skingrad, if she’d walked the whole night, she might have gotten here in time. If she hadn’t waited around to talk to Glarthir, and had gotten a head start, she might have gotten here in time. If she’d gotten to Weynon Priory earlier to talk to Jauffre earlier to leave for Kvatch earlier… would it have made a difference?

She pushed passed the refugee camp and an extremely disillusioned priest and moved further up the road. The cloudy sky turned red, like a huge fire was burning nearby. Enormous blood-covered black spikes jutted out of the ground around a… _Nine,_ around a giant, _massive_ portal. Red and yellow light burst and crackled around it, and Daedra poured out, fighting three Kvatch guards.

She summoned her bow and dispatched two clannfear with a smooth _thunk._ “Who’s in charge here?” she called.

An Imperial stepped up and wiped his brow. “I am,” he replied. “Savlian Matius. This is _no_ place for a civilian! Go back to the encampment!”

The thief put her hands up. “I helped. I can help!” she replied. “I’m looking for someone. What happened? _How_ did this happen? Is there anyone left alive in the city?”

Savlian Matius angrily sheathed his sword, _shnk_ , framed by the imposing portal. “We lost the damned city, that’s what happened! I don’t know how this thing opened up, but it did, a damned portal to Oblivion itself. There’s still people left in the city. I don’t know if they’re still alive. But we can’t get in with this gate here.”

A scamp tottered out. Savlian unsheathed his sword, turned to cut it down, and then turned back to the thief. “These aren’t nearly so bad as what we had before,” he explained. “But it’s still all we can do to hold the barricade and protect the encampment. I must save who’s left.” He rubbed his eyes. “Those people are all that’s left of my home… my goddamned home, up in flames.”

The thief’s hands shook. “The person I’m looking for… the priest, Martin. He wasn’t in the camp. Do you know what happened to him? Where is he?”

“Last I saw, he was leading a group into the Chapel of Akatosh, brave soul. If he’s lucky, they got trapped in there.”

The thief looked at the gate behind Savlian. If she wanted to get to Martin, she had to get into that chapel. And to get into the chapel, that gate had to close. Which meant…

She grimaced. “Anyone been sent inside?”

Savlian barked a cold little laugh. “You’re not thinking of going in there, are you? I sent men in, but they haven’t returned. You must be able to close them, because there was a bigger gate that the enemy closed, but gods know how.”

The thief made the same cold laugh. “Hopefully the gods really are looking out for me, because it seems like I’ll have to figure it out.”

Savlian’s expression softened. “Hey, if you’re serious, I won’t stop you. It’ll likely mean your death, though, you understand?”

The thief shrugged uncomfortably. She would rather not think about it. Gods, what had she gotten into? “I wish I could say I’ve faced worse. If I… don’t make it out, you must find Martin, the priest. Get him out of the city, and to _Weynon Priory_ , outside Chorrol. Climb the walls if you have to.”

Savlian nodded. “And if you find any of my men in there, bring them back if you can. You’re doing a brave thing, stranger. Good luck.”

 

* * *

 

The portal transported the thief with a bright flash of light—like fire, engulfing her from every side. It was a disturbingly familiar experience. Stepping forward, she was slapped in the face with the hottest, most humid air she’d ever felt. Dagon’s realm of Oblivion looked much the same as the gate itself did. The ground was desolate and barren, besides sparse grasses and odd looking spiky plants. Everything was red and burning, even the ground—pools of lava were all around. She struggled to take a deep breath of the hot, heavy air, and pushed the question that was nagging her out of her mind: was that dream a warning she’d ignored?

She heard shouts. A Kvatch guard fought two flame atronachs in the distance, and a dead clannfear lay nearby. She sunk an arrow into the chest of the one on the left, while he took out the one on the right. “Are you alright?” she called to him.

The guard turned and saw the thief, standing just by the Gate exit. “Thank the Nine!” he exclaimed, jogging toward her. “Are you reinforcements? Are there more?” She shook her head. “Well at least that’s one friendly face,” he said, sighing. “The others… they were all picked off. They took Menien to the tower. You’ve got to save him!” He was obviously haggard. The thief’s heart went out to him. She told him to get to safety, and he gratefully ran past her and out the gate.

The tall, spiky towers loomed in the distance. The direct path to them was blocked by huge gates, and there was no chance of jumping over or around them. The thief crouched and worked her way west to find a way around to them.

Oblivion was treacherous. Landslides threatened to tumble her into the lava, smaller towers lobbed fireballs, and even the fauna was hostile: some snapped and hit her when she approached, and others released toxic gas. The thief had no doubt they were probably of alchemical value, but wasn’t interested in getting near them regardless. Various Dremora and lesser Daedra lingered at every turn. She tried to take them out with her bow—she briefly wondered at the logistics of summoning a Daedric bow into another Daedric realm, but as long as it worked—from the shadows when she could.

The thief sweated in her leather armor. It stuck to her uncomfortably, in all the worst places, and stung when it pulled away as she moved. She didn’t know any fire shield spells, so she settled for casting small frost spells on herself—they hurt a bit, but at least they were _cold_.

There was no visible sun in the realm. The sky was simply red, with no way to tell how much time had past. By the time the thief reached the tower, tired and rather worse for wear, she began to question how long this was taking. How were they faring outside? It felt like ages, but so did any time spent in sweltering heat. Maybe it was only an hour or two. Hopefully.

The inside the tower was circular, with doors opposite of the entrance. The Daedric architecture, like Daedric armor and weapons, favored savage spikes. Each level and room the thief entered had enemies to fight—what she was quickly discover was normal for this plane. Scamps, clannfear, flame atronachs, various classes of Dremora. When this was over she _never_ wanted to see another Dremora until the day she died.

The rooms had odd names, like “Blood Feast” or “Rending Halls,” and she was disgusted to see containers made of… flesh? throughout the building. A thief’s instinct within encouraged her to loot them, but the queasy feeling in her stomach insisted otherwise. The place was needlessly, deliberately brutal. She explored through a sick morbid fascination, wondering what the Daedra would have for her next.

In the rooms lovingly titled the “Corridors of Dark Salvation,” the thief hit a dead end. She picked and she picked at the locks, on either of the two doors, but they had failsafes preventing them from being picked. She needed a key.

The thief took a third door out onto a bridge connecting to another, smaller tower. The door closed with a cringe-worthy clanging sound.

“Over here!” hissed a human voice. “In the cage! Quick!”

The thief leaned over the railing of the spiral stair and peered upwards. There was a cage, perched at the very top, with an older gentleman inside. He was half naked and leaning what little of body he could manage out of the spiky gaps in the cage. He was in very bad shape. She checked downwards—another Dremora patrolled, oblivious to her presence. Not the best guards she had ever seen.

She pounded up the stairs. “Are you Menien? I was told you were here.”

“Yes. Nevermind that,” he said. “Listen, quick! I can tell you how to close this. You need to get to the top of the other large tower, the Sigil Keep. Find the Sigil Stone, it’s what keeps the gate open—remove it, and the gate should close! Hurry!” He rattled the cage bars impatiently.

“I can’t,” she said. “The only way up there is locked. Besides that, I need to get you out of there first.”

“Forget about me!” said Menien. “There’s no way out of here. What matters is Kvatch. That Dremora down there, the Keeper, he has the key. Take it, and save the city.”

She could quite easily leave him here. But she didn’t know what would happen to him if she closed the gate while he was still in the cage. “Maybe I can destroy those bars,” the thief said. She cast disintegrate armor on touch, grabbing the questionable metal bars.

Nothing happened. “See, there’s nothing you can do!” Menien said. “Now get out of here!”

“What did you cast, mortal?” demanded an alien, distorted voice from behind her.

The thief dodged a wide swipe of the Sigil Keeper’s Daedric claymore. “Shit.” All she had on her was her bound bow, and it was too cramped to shoot well. She could summon a dagger as well, but dagger versus claymore was not a fight she was looking forward to seeing.

“You should not be here, mortal. Your blood is forfeit! Your flesh is mine!” The Dremora lifted his claymore high in the air in preparation for one large swing.

The thief dropped her bow and lunged forward. She cast her strongest shock spell and grabbed the Dremora by the exposed skin on his face.

The Sigil Keeper brought his blade down as he convulsed, slashing through the thief’s leather armor and into her shoulder and back. He crumpled dead on the ground, energy still coursing through his system.

“Mara’s _tit_ ,” she muttered. Her armor was wrecked, and she’d used all her magicka on that one hit. She could feel blood seep down her already sticky back.

“The key should be on his body,” said Meinen impatiently.

“Alright, alright!” the thief snapped. “By _Akatosh_ , give me a minute.” She chugged a small healing potion to tide her over until she could use spells again. The Sigil Keeper’s armor, she noticed, was not really Daedric armor—it was of the same style, but its quality was not much better than steel. And the claymore was far too heavy for her to take. She found the key in question inside a pocket underneath his cheap Daedric-style armor. She nabbed it and turned to Menien. “Now it’s your turn.”

“Don’t worry about me, just take the key and get to the Sigil Keep!” he said.

The thief ignored him. She tried the disintegration spell again. She hefted the heavy claymore and turned it on the cage, which produced impressive clangs, but not so much as a dent. She even tried lifting the cage with a telekinesis spell in order to bash it back down, but it was too heavy to budge. She finally resorted to feebly shaking the cage bars.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, sighing. She would have to leave him. The thief forced herself to look him in the eyes—Menien returned her look with one of resignation. “Hopefully, if—when—I close the gate, you’ll…”

“Go,” Menien said.

The thief nodded. She left back out the door and over the narrow bridge. That made two people she hadn’t saved—two people if she didn’t count all of Kvatch. She felt a failure.

The thief’s eyes stung as she unlocked the doors in the larger tower. This next room was the last—it was on the roof, out in the open air. A pillar of fire shot out the center, up to the second level. The brutal and bloodthirsty quality of Daedric architecture was, here, at its peak. The staircases up to the second level were made of giant ribs, and the second level of huge bits of flesh. The thief retched.

Two low-class Dremora stood on the rib-stairs on either side. The thief shot the Dremora on right while it was unawares, and the left just as it was turning to see what happened.

The stinging had advanced to tears, she was surprised to discover. It wasn’t just the man she’d left behind in a cage. It was how Kvatch had been ravaged, how the citizens were dedicated to saving the city and those in it at all costs, how a priest she had not met yet risked his life keeping people safe in the chapel. And she had had the opportunity to save one, but she couldn’t.

She took out the last Dremora, on the second level, next to one of those disgusting flesh containers. One arrow shot not being enough, she clocked him straight in the face with her bow. It wasn’t as satisfying as she hoped.

The pillar of fire ended in a floating, swirling black orb—the Sigil Stone. It must be, surely. There was a platform jutting out to it, allowing her to get her arms in reach. She hesitated. What did she need to do, just grab it? Did she have to take it and run it back out the entrance? What would happen when she touched it?

She reached her hands in. It was as hot as a fire should be, hotter maybe. But her hands did not seem to be burning. She grabbed the Sigil Stone and pulled and—

 

* * *

 

With a flash of bright light, she was back outside Kvatch. In place of the gate was a hideous scar. The air was warm still, but colder than in Oblivion, and it felt good against her skin. In her hands she clutched the swirling, smoky black Sigil Stone.

A hand clamped her on the back, near her injury. The thief jumped and hissed. “Careful!”

“You did it!” said Savlian, coming up from behind her. “You actually closed the gate! I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever come back. But I knew you could do it! You’re a hero!” The thief noticed now that it was night—though not much darker than it had been before. She had been in Oblivion for hours.

“I remember you telling me it would be my death,” the thief grumbled. She didn’t see Menien anywhere, and tried not to think about it. “Shit, what am I supposed to do with this thing?” She tried to stuff the Sigil Stone into her pack.

“That doesn’t matter anymore. This is our chance to launch a counterattack! You need to come with us. You’ve got miles more combat experience than any of these men.”

The thief got the over-sized stone to fit by throwing out three clunky calipers—why did she even _have_ those? “I need to get into the city anyway.” She almost wanted to procrastinate going in, for fear of what she might or might not find.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I was expecting. The moral of the story is: don't take three English classes and a reading-heavy independent study at the same time.


	4. The Thief Becomes the Hero of Kvatch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thief finds Martin, takes back the castle, and gains a new name.

The city was, truly, a smoking ruin. Buildings were toppled and burning through the rain that continued to fall. Fallen buildings blocked the majority of the city off. It was rife with Daedra, scamps and flame atronachs. The thief, Savilian, and his guards cleared the way to the chapel. None fell, but all were injured, and they needed a healer.

The thief hesitated a second and prayed to the _gods_ that she would find Martin inside. If he was missing, or dead it a ditch somewhere, then they had lost. She took a deep breath and heaved open the door.

“Is someone named Martin here?” She asked the first person she saw, a female Kvatch guard.

“Brother Martin? He’s right over there,” said the guard, pointing further in the chapel. “Taking care of the citizens. He’s the one who lead everyone in here, thank the Nine. We owe him our lives.” The thief’s heart gave a funny little skip of hope.

The thief pushed passed citizens and the overturned benches to tap a man in a threadbare grey robe on the shoulder. Behind her, Savlian began to explain the situation and organize the guards.

“Are you Martin?” she asked.

The man turned. He was plain. He had shoulder-length brown hair and his face showed the beginning lines of age or hard times. But he had the same sharp blue eyes as Uriel Septim. He studied the thief carefully just as she studied him.

“I’m him,” he responded finally.

“The priest?”

His eyes narrowed with a sad look. “Yes. I am a priest. Do you need a priest? I don’t think I’ll be much help to you. I’m having trouble understanding the gods right now.” He looked away. “If all this is part of their divine plan, I’m not sure I want to have anything to do with it.” Martin spoke bitterly, every word slow and deliberate.

The thief dropped her head and let out a long sigh. “Oh, thank the gods,” she said. “Martin-uh-sir, you’re in danger. I need to get you out of here.”

Martin frowned in irritation. “Of course I’m in danger. So too is everyone else. But I’m needed here. I can’t leave. I assume you didn’t risk your life just to tell me something I already know.”

“But this is different! This has everything to do with you; there is a plan. O-or… at least I’m told,” she said, faltering a little. “We need your help.”

Martin became angrier still. “I prayed to Akatosh all that terrible night, but no help came. Only Daedra. So if you tell me there’s a plan, and that you need my help, you’re more of a fool than you seem. Look around. What good is a priest?” Martin waved his arm to display the state the chapel was in.

The thief balked a little at being called a fool, but acquiesced—she really needed to start explaining things in the proper order. “I was sent here to find you, by Uriel Septim himself, before he died. You’re his son—the last remaining—you’re the emperor.”

Martin backed away, his eyes grown wide. “You think the emperor—Emperor Uriel Septim—is _my_ father?” he said in disbelief. “No, you must have the wrong man. I am a priest of Akatosh. My father was a farmer.” There was wonder in his voice, accompanied by a hint of betrayal.

Humility was a nice quality, but it made this harder. “I don’t know how to convince you… But you’re the emperor now, or will be. The Daedra came here to get to _you_ , _that’s_ why you’re in danger more than everyone else, and _that’s_ why I need to get you out of here.”

Martin leaned back against the central altar for support. “An entire city destroyed to get at me?” he said, not really talking to her. The implications hung in the air. Along with the city, dozens had died. “Why? Because I’m the emperor’s son?”

“What reason do I have to lie about this?” Usually when the thief had to convince someone she wasn’t lying, she actually was. Persuading someone when she was actually telling the truth was recently becoming quite familiar.

Martin put his head in his hands. “I don’t know. It’s strange… but I believe you.” He stood up straighter and looked the thief in the eyes. “What does this mean? What do you want me to do?”

“I have to get you to Weynon Priory,” she replied, reaching for his forearm. “Jauffre—”

“All citizens still in the chapel,” Savlian’s voice called out, “please leave with the guard. The way is clear, and some of us will escort you to the encampment outside the city.” He came up behind and spoke quietly to the thief. “You’ll continue with us, won’t you? We’re going to the castle, hopefully to find the count and finish taking back the city. Reinforcements from the Imperial Watch have come.”

“Right,” the thief answered. “Of course.” Old thoughts of stopping in Anvil nagged the back of her mind and jeered at her. She had seriously miscalculated. She couldn’t leave Martin alone, here, like this. “Maybe this sounds stupid, given the situation,” she said to Martin,” but I’d rather you face Daedra where I can see you than face possibly nothing—but possibly something—where I cannot.” Not that it had helped with Emperor Uriel. “You could go down to the encampment, where there are guards, but who knows what will show up. You could stay here, in the chapel, in a place that has proven relatively safe, but alone. Or you could come, definitely face Daedra, but be where I can see you. It’s your choice, sir.”

Martin considered. “I’m coming,” he said. “I want to help. If they were after me… if this is my fault, I need to set it right. That starts here.”

The thief gulped. She didn’t see any better options. “Can you, er, handle yourself?” she asked. “I’m sure some of us will get hurt, and could use a healer, so maybe you should just hang back-”

“I can handle myself,” said Martin.

 

* * *

 

The thief, Martin, Savlian, and the three Kvatch guards—the guard she had met at the entrance of the Oblivion Gate, Ilend Vonius, was one of them—left through the rightmost door of the chapel out into the area Kvatch that had been blocked off by fallen buildings.

When the first Daedra jumped out—a gliding fire atronach—the thief jumped in front of Martin. “Sir, get back!” she shouted, summoning her bow.

Martin weaved from behind her and tossed two frost spells at the atronach—which fell and exploded a safe distance away.

“I _can_ handle myself,” Martin repeated, “though I appreciate it.”

The thief eyed him curiously. More than just healing from a priest.

“Glad to have you along, Brother Martin,” Savlian said, nodding.

The group moved carefully towards the castle gate, dispatching enemies when they appeared and stopping to heal when necessary. The guards cast a doleful look about every time they entered a new street and witnessed the devastation their city had come to. The thief had never been intimately familiar with Kvatch, but the rest of the group recognized every street and building.

“This was the blacksmith’s shop.”

“My friend Quintus lived here. He didn’t make it out.”

“I liked to take strolls with my wife down this street.”

Every time a member of the guard made a comment about where they were, the thief looked guiltily over to Martin. He didn’t meet her gaze, looking straight ahead, focus unwavering.

 

* * *

 

Martin was quite capable. He turned from demure priest to fierce, well-trained mage every time an enemy came into sight—he used a variety of frost spells, as well as being a competent healer. But after at least the third time hearing Martin shout his battle cry, the thief felt she was going to have a fit.

“Why _do_ you keep shouting that?” she said, exasperated. “You _aren’t_ fighting fire with fire—you’re fighting fire with ice. That’s _literally_ the opposite.” The thief caught what she was saying, and who she was saying it too, and recoiled. “Uh, sir.”

Martin laughed, despite the somber setting. “Consider it a metaphor. Do you not want to shout something brave to keep you going throughout all… this?”

“In my line of work it’s usually best to stay quiet,” she replied. “Not that this is the most stealthy of groups.”

Martin looked about the group of clanging, armor-wearing guards. “I suppose not,” he said. “I’ll make you a deal—I’ll be quiet when it’s appropriate, if you stop calling me _sir_. It’s really not necessary. I’m just a man.”

The thief wasn’t sure how she felt about that. “What should I call you, then? _Sir_.”

“Most would just call me Brother Martin,” he replied, casting a glance over to her.

The thief laughed. “Alright, but when you’re emperor and I say, ‘I once knew Brother Martin,’ in a tavern, no one will know who I’m—”

“It’s coming up!” called Savlian.

Martin and the thief snapped back to attention. The castle loomed overhead, a large bridge and gate standing between them. Daedra dotted the path beyond the gate.

“Dammit,” said Savlian. “The gate is locked. We have to get to the gatehouse to raise the gate, but the only way there is the North Gate House, and that’s always kept locked.”

“Don’t you have a key?” asked the thief. “You are a guard, after all…”

Savlian sighed. “No, Berich Inian has the key. He stayed at the Chapel, he should still be there. Someone needs to get to him, go to the Guard House, follow the passage to the gatehouse, and raise the gate.”

“Well, who are we going to get to go back there?”

No one responded. The thief picked her head up and looked about the group—everyone looked back at her expectantly.

“Not me,” she said, shaking her head. “I can’t leave him alone. You don’t need me just to fetch a guy with a key!”

“Please,” said Savlian. “You’re experienced. I trust you to get there and back quickly. We’ll hold the position here, you go by yourself.”

She dithered. “Are you going to be alright, here?” she asked Martin.

“I’ll be fine,” said Martin, waving a hand. “We can’t get to the Daedra from here, but neither can they get to us. One person alone can get there and back in half the time the group could all together.”

“Drat,” said the thief. She bounced from foot to foot, thinking. She could get there and back so, so quickly. Walking with this group felt like a snail’s pace—worse than a snail’s pace, like a snail caring half its own weight in equipment. “Fine, fine!” she burst out. “But so help me, if I come back and find you hurt I’ll never forgive myself, so you watch it!”

The thief turned around sharply and sprinted back to the chapel. She did get there quickly, in almost no time at all—no enemies to fight anymore, no slow companions, no chewing the scenery.

 

* * *

 

It did not turn out quite that way. While the thief was anxious and antsy to get back to the group, Berich Inian insisted on coming himself—along with _three_ Imperial Legionnaires, in the clunkiest and slowest armor she’d ever seen. And without a healer present, it was even harder to keep the whole group going. The thief dragged them along and prayed to whichever of the Nine Divines who would listen that nothing happened to Martin while she was gone.

Unlocking the gate, defeating the Daedra between the group and the castle, and getting back to Martin, the thief began to feel a little silly. He was, truthfully, fine. But she felt on edge.

The Great Hall of Castle Kvatch was strong and sturdily built, but the interior was ravaged and burned. Lesser Daedra dotted the space between the entrance and the throne. The group spread out took them out, clearing the hall of enemies.

“We’ll hold the position here in the main hall,” said Savlian. “You look for the count.”

The thief nodded to Martin and they advanced through the castle. Down one path—a closet. And a clannfear. Another door—sleeping quarters, empty. Bits of furniture were set aflame, but no count.

The thief crept further along and opened another doorway a crack—there was a sitting room leading through an open door to a bedroom, this one again a complete wreckage. Blood was spilled across the floor, and a huge monster—one the thief had not yet seen—stood with a piece of cloth in its clutches.

The monster saw the movement coming from the door, shivered with some kind of magic, and charged.

“Watch out!” she said, shutting the door again. The door shuddered as the monster slammed into it, trying to take it down. “There’s something big in there! This huge, alligator-like thing, on two legs!” The door shook again.

“A Daedroth?”

“I don’t know!” said the thief. The door frame splintered a bit at the hinges. “I didn’t see any of them in the Gate. But I think the Count was in there. I don’t think he’s…”

“Back away from the door. When it breaks open, be ready to strike,” Martin said. “Do you know any shock spells?”

“One. It doesn’t have any range.” The thief remembered the Sigil Keeper, and how one strong hit had taken him down. “The last time I got a giant gash down my back, but it should work.”

Another slam. More wood splintered. “Get ready!”

The Daedroth burst out of the room and slammed the door into the wall opposite, and the the two dove upon it. The monster convulsed with electricity, clinging to life. A final stab from Martin’s shock-enchanted dagger and it died.

The thief doubled over. She had entirely tapped out her magicka, once again. “Stendarr, that thing was huge.” The thief remembered the bit of cloth she’d seen in the Daedroth’s claws. “Gods, the Count,” she exclaimed, darting into the bedchambers.

The Count of Kvatch, Ormellius Goldwine, lay face-down in a pool of blood next to his bed.

“We’re too late,” said Martin, coming up from behind her. “Far too late, by the looks of it. We didn’t have a chance.”

The thief knelt down, her knees dipping stickily unto the bloody floor. “We can’t carry him. I’ll take his signet ring, as proof we found him.”

Martin covered his mouth in thought and turned away. “He’ll need a proper burial.”

The thief hesitated a second before bending down again to close the Count’s eyes. “Come on. Let’s go,” she said to Martin, not looking him in the eyes. “I want to get out of here.”

 

* * *

 

“You’re back! Where’s the Count? Why isn’t he with you?” asked Savlian. He studied their faces. “Did he not…”

Martin shook his head. “He was gone long before we got here.”

Savlian sunk back. “This is indeed a dark day for all of us left… Did you happen to find his signet ring?”

The thief nodded. “We took it with us, to show we’d really found him.” She handed the ring over to Savlian. “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” she said, finally looking him in the eyes. The Count was another person she hadn’t managed to save. If you didn’t count all of Kvatch.

“At least we have this. I’ll make sure to protect it, for when the next Count of Kvatch is crowned,” said Savlian. “But I thank you for risking your life by coming this far with us. We could not have done it without you. You closed the Oblivion Gate, and you helped us take back the castle.”

“I was just at the right place and the right time,” said the thief. She laughed bitterly. “Lucky, I guess.”

“No,” said Savlian, stepping back to stand in-line with the rest of the Kvatch guard, “you’re a hero. Without you, Kvatch would still be invaded with Daedra. All hail the Hero of Kvatch!”

The thief stood awkwardly among the remainder of the Kvatch guard, the dawn light pouring through the castle windows, while they cheered.


	5. The Hero of Kvatch Is Tired

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The thief is on edge after everything in Kvatch.

It had been a dumb move. But she was _tired_.

After leaving Kvatch, the thief—she refused to acknowledge the title “Hero of Kvatch,” that anyone who let so many die could be a hero—had hurried along the Gold Road with Martin and a piece of Kvatch guard’s armor in tow. The countryside was lit by the sun over the distant West Weald, and she insisted they keep moving even though her campaign through Oblivion and Kvatch had lasted the whole night.

The thief wanted to get as far away from Kvatch as possible. Savlian Matius had given her the symbol of his profession in the hopes the thief could get better use of it, as he no longer wanted to fight. She didn’t tell him that she was sick of fighting too.

It was because she was overtired, the thief justified, that she had so stupidly lunged in front of Martin to protect him from a mere _goblin_ trying to drag a half-decomposed body to a nearby Ayleid ruin.

She woke up to find herself under the tent of the bandit camp. Her armor was removed, her wounds bandaged and healed. The thief scrambled out of the tent and her injuries smarted as she moved. Martin sat in front of the campfire, her armor in his lap and a large blunt needle in his hand. The sun had moved in the sky to light up the Gold Coast.

Martin turned to face her. “I hope you’re feeling better.”

The thief moved forward to sit across from Martin. “I think I might have been stupid,” she said, messing with a bandage on her arm. “Thank you for taking care of me. What exactly…?”

“The goblin’s weapon was poisoned,” said Martin. “It was a valiant effort to protect me, but with the condition you were in it was much more a danger to you than me. You still had wounds that weren’t fully healed.” He leaned back over the armor and frowned. “You might want to switch to that Kvatch armor. I can heal injuries, but I can’t fix armor. You don’t learn it, in my field.”

The thief grimaced and motioned for him to hand her the armor. “No thanks,” she responded. “And in my field, you get to learn a little bit of everything.”

“Does that include magic? You use quite high level spells, for… someone in your field.” Martin handed her the armor over and began attending to the injury on her back. “Were you ever in the guild?”

She made a face. “You do a lot more than healing, for a priest. Were you?”

Martin paused thoughtfully. “I… was, for a time,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

The thief leaned over her armor and stuck the needle through roughly. “I, uh. Was. For a time,” she said, repeating Martin’s own words.

“I wonder if we ever ran into each other.”

“Probably not,” said the thief. She made a few quick stitches in the armor, which would have to be replaced. “The guild… kicked me out. You see—”

Martin raised his hands. “Don’t feel like you need to justify it to me. My conduct was not exactly fitting of a student.”

The thief tried to glance back to see Martin’s face, but it was out of view. She sighed and turned the needle back to her armor.

“Why don’t you tell me what happened with the goblin.”

The thief shrugged. “I just… I saw that goblin, and I thought of Oblivion, and I thought it was… That sounds silly, but there it is.”

Martin’s hands paused for a fraction of a second before patting the thief on the back and standing. “Your injury looks fine, now,” he said. “I give you permission to keep moving.”

 

Martin and the thief entered Skingrad in the late afternoon. The sun was low in the sky among the sturdy stone buildings of the city.

“We can stay at the Two Sisters Lodge,” said the thief, turning into the southern district of the city. “We can get dinner and rest up and—”

“PSST.”

The thief froze. Martin turned to look at the source.

“ _PSST_.”

The thief turned now, too. Glarthir stood in the middle of the stone path, facing away from her. He quickly took a glance in her direction to check she was watching.

“Can we help you with some—” Martin began.

“Behind the chapel at midnight!” Glarthir hissed.

“Glarthir, I—”

“Not here! Too many ears! It’s vitally important you do not forget, behind the chapel at midnight!”

The thief felt a red hot anger well up inside her. Her hands shook. As Martin opened his mouth to respond, the thief interrupted, “No one is following you, Glarthir!”

She couldn’t believe she’d said it. It was as if she could see herself floating above her own body without anything she could do to stop it.

“Wh-what did you say?” Glarthir stepped back half a pace.

“No one— _no one_ —is following you!” she repeated, taking a step forward and jabbing her finger at Glarthir. Her face felt hot. She had been stabbed, burned, and pummeled by Daedra literally to Oblivion and back, finally knocked out by a _goblin_ , and now _this Bosmer_ wanted her to meet him in the middle of the night so she could tell him nothing at all? If she hadn’t been dealing with him, maybe she could have gotten to Kvatch before the gate opened. “They never have! I didn’t even bother to check this time! You are just a sad little mer who thinks everyone is out to get him when no one cares about you at _all_!”

Glarthir narrowed his eyes, pointed back at the thief, and said, “You will regret that,” before turning and running back into the city.

The thief breathed heavily as she watched him leave.

Martin gently put a hand on her shoulder. “That reaction seemed a bit uncalled for.”

The thief sighed and shook her head. “He thinks people are following him. He’s been getting—trying to get—me to tail people to see if it’s true. And they’re not, obviously. After today, I saw him, and I just…”

Martin’s eyes went wide. “Get down!” he yelled, pulling the thief back. She stumbled and fell unto the pavement as a harsh _screeching_ of metal hitting stonework sounded behind her.

The thief scrambled to turn around. Glarthir had a comically large battleaxe—comically if he weren’t wielding it at her. “You’re in on it, aren’t you!” he shouted, crazed look in his eyes. He rose the axe for another blow; the thief scooted back. Chop. “Glarthir, I—” Another. Scramble. Chop.

“I trusted you, but you were probably reporting back to _them!_ ” Scramble. Chop.

“Glarthir, you don’t have to—” Scramble. Chop.

Martin cast ice spells at him, but Glarthir seemed to trundle on unfazed. However, as Glarthir reached back for another blow, an arrow whizzed in and sunk into the space just above his right ear. His body came crashing down, axe in hand, which clattered to the stonework between the thief’s legs.

“Watch out, citizen!” shouted a Skingrad guard a little too late. He arrived at the scene toting a hunting bow. “I think we were all worried something like this would happen with Glarthir one day,” he said. “What set him off?”

The thief sat wide-eyed, staring at Glarthir’s body. “He hired me because he thought people were following him,” she explained. “When I—got angry and told him nothing was wrong, he accused me.”

“You called him crazy,” added Martin.

“Yes, well. I think— I think I was right.”

The guard shook his head. “I’ll get someone to clean this up,” he said, shaking his head. “Take care of yourselves.”

The guard left the thief sitting on the cobblestones, breathing heavily. She hung her head and sighed.

“I shouldn’t have gotten angry. I should have just went along with what he wanted.”

Martin reached to help her up. “Maybe you should have kept your temper, but who knows what he would have done. He may have hurt those other people.”

The thief stood and looked down at the body. “Let’s get out of here.”

“By the Divines, this man is dead!” said another guard, finding the scene as they walked away. “Who could have done this?”

The thief sighed and shook her head.

 

The thief put her tired fist down on the counter of the West Weald Inn, a polished stone building more expensive than the thief had bothered to pay for in a while. “ _Please_ tell me you have two rooms available, or a room with two beds.”

The upper-class Imperial woman behind the counter winced at the thief’s current state, injured and bloody and excessively brusque. “Of course. One room—with two beds—is 30 gold.”

“Thank the Nine for that.”

Martin followed behind the thief was she stalked off towards their room. “It would have been fine if I’d slept on the floor, really,” he said.

“It _really_ would not have been,” the thief replied. “To think, vampire hunters took up all the other available rooms at the Two Sisters, in Skingrad, of all places.”

“Why should Skingrad be significant?”

The thief grimaced. “Don’t worry about it.”

She’d gone to the Two Sisters Lodge first to find that the majority of the rooms were taken. The thief had on good authority that vampire hunters in Skingrad was a particularly sticky situation, but it wasn’t her problem right now—right now her problem was _a decent night’s sleep_.

When Mog gra-Mogahk pointed out that the only remaining room only had one bed with a sly look on her face, Brother Martin, de-facto-emperor-of-Cyrodiil Martin Septim, suggested he sleep on the floor.

The thief’s face flushed in some combination of embarrassment and anger. “That’s—no,” she said, sputtering. Either Martin was an expert at not losing his cool, or he was oblivious to the situation. “No. No. That’s alright.”

The thief apologized for the trouble and left for the more expensive, and hopefully less occupied, inn. Martin followed dutifully.

She was not having Martin sleep on the floor, she was not sleeping on the floor herself, and she was not sharing a bed. She was not dealing with an inn full of vampire hunters and she was not dealing with innuendos from Mog gra-Mogahk. The thief had decided she was drawing the line in the sand for things she was willing to put up with that day.

 

The thief put her hands on her hips inside the much fancier West Weald Inn room and assessed the situation. There were two beds, arranged in the logical position alongside the side walls.

“Needs to be more secure if we’re both going to sleep at the same time,” she said.

“I really believe it’s fine,” replied Martin.

The thief ignored him and dragged one of the nicely made single beds to the door, perpendicular to the other bed. It made loud squeaking noises that surely could be heard downstairs and left scuff marks across the room’s nice wooden floors. She resolved to pay for it in the morning.

As it now stood, one of the beds—the one she would sleep on—was blocking the inward opening door. No one could get in or out without moving the bed, and her, first. Hopefully neither of them would need to relieve themselves in the night.  

The thief sat down on the green silk sheets and sighed. “Reminds me of home.”

“Does it?” Martin asked, gingerly patting the bed.

The thief shrugged.

Martin continued. “I’ve spent some time in my life with extravagances, but they’ve never felt like anything other than luxury.”

“I’m from High Rock,” she said. “My parents are… quite wealthy. But you’re better off. Become too familiar and it’s just a bed like any other. Get a simpler bed and you can spend the twenty gold on something else.”

“Why did you leave? If you don’t mind my asking.”

The thief shrugged. “My parents wanted me to enter the Arcane University. They were worried about my future. I’m born under the Thief, and my… related tendencies weren’t encouraging. I tried, but I already said how that turned out.”

Martin nodded. “Joining the guild seemed to lead me into a trouble, rather than keep me out. My father encouraged me to join,” he said. “That is—my father, that raised me.”

“Of course.”

They paused. The thief didn’t want to elaborate on her time in the guild, and she wasn’t about to ask Martin about his.

“You were with him, weren’t you?” said Martin. “The emperor, I mean. You met him?”

The thief looked up. Martin was not quite looking at her, his brow furrowed. “I did,” she replied. “Just a little. At the end. I’ve met some nobility before, but he wasn’t quite like that. He was kind. He seemed to know more than other people… He  knew he was going to die, and he knew about me, too.”

“I wondered what kind of person would hide their child with strangers,” he said. “If he was just another royal who’d had a fling with a woman and then tried to hide his shame.”

Her stomach twisted up. “It wasn’t like that,” she said. “Or… I don’t know. I don’t think. It seemed like he knew how important it was that you be there, and be safe. It seemed like he cared.”

“So just a spare in case the worst happened?” Martin said. His voice was cold. “That isn’t fair.”

The thief sighed. “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

Martin shook his head. “I think it will take me some time to take this all in,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

It had been.

That night, the thief slept poorly. It took hours for her mind to settle. She kept running through the events of the day, from Glarthir, to the goblin, to Kvatch and Oblivion. She ran through all her mistakes once more—yelling at Glarthir, seeing Daedra where there weren’t any, not being fast enough to Kvatch or fast enough through the Oblivion Gate. After she’d finished agonizing her most recent failings, her mind travelled further, further, to examine what other things she might blame herself for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back a year later, like the bad penny!  
> I think I might have a secondary goal in this fic of dangling a ship cliche before people's eyes and then snatching it away. We'll see how it goes.


End file.
